Thoughts of Ani: Understand as much as we can understand the love

The thrill of the hunt has wavered and turned to ashes. It oftentimes meddle with the ones that I do decide to care for, and when it submits, it becomes somewhat undesirable and withered, pushed aback by the winds. Like memories. Of forgotten days and feelings.

There is nary a day that I do not think of Ainhoa. That bitter aftertaste at the tip of my tongue knowing it could have been handled so much better (or maybe not) on my part, and it gnaws on my very essence endlessly. Things happened so quickly, and next thing I knew she was no longer there. She was sublime, moreso than any soul that has ever compelled me to feel, and I feel left out for it. Like I have slapped the table where I eat hoping food would enter my mouth on its own volition. And due to this extraneous strain that never seems to want to go, my days no longer contain that copacetic edge to it. Everything else pales in comparison. She gave me that soft but unbearable lightness of being, that legal high that gives, despite knowing from the first that it was doomed for me, that I was far and away from being ideal, that I was earth and she was sky. And I always think about what I could have done to improve things, the painfully obvious errors I could have improved upon and avoided, and... what else was there?

And I wait endlessly for another chance. Patience being key. Hopelessness being a motif. It will never subside. I was having a look at a book with a guy fried up above his knees, and I said to myself, "I can relate," because I have been thinking of spontaneously combusting as a welcomed vacation from the burdens of Earth.